


Voldemort's Shorts

by Vinylshadow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon? What Canon?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 11:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16345523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vinylshadow/pseuds/Vinylshadow
Summary: A series of disconnected shorts about Voldemort and how he handles his life after his death at the hands of Harry Potter.





	Voldemort's Shorts

Voldemort lay flat on his back and took a moment to think about his life.

He had been a pretty successful wizard, charming, handsome, charismatic. Powerful. Feared. Maybe a tad more paranoid than necessary, but with how wizards viewed the likes of dark magic, muggles, and the Statute of Secrecy, it paid to be cautious.

Yet he had forgone all that when he had gone to destroy the Potter family to keep them from fulfilling a prophecy, same as he had done to the Longbottoms, who had also fit the criteria.

Odd, that, he mused as he slowly sat up, grimacing at his bumps and bruises. Doing a quick once-over yielded no major or life-threatening injuries, although whether that was a result of his multiple enchantments over the years or good blind luck, he wasn't sure.

His head was also a lot clearer and he felt oddly light, as if a weight had been lifted from his body. One more thing to think about, perhaps.

For now, retreat was probably the wisest option, and he Apparated with a  _crack_.

That had been a few years ago, and after thinking things over, Voldemort had decided to lay low. He used magic to alter his appearance, easy enough. He had requested funds from his Gringotts Vault, easy enough. Then he needed to find somewhere he could keep an ear open to gossip, since his Death Eaters had fled at news of his apparent demise at the hands of a child...

He'd never live that down, and more than once, he had considered hunting down his followers and erasing their memories, but those kinds of spells had never been his strongest area of expertise, and they had already talked to too many people to silence them about it without raising suspicion-

"Oi, Tom, the hags want another round!"

"On it!" Voldemort answered automatically, letting his eyes wander over the interior of the Leaky Cauldron.

What better place to gather news than the entrance to Diagon Alley? He'd managed to get a job as a barkeep, under the stern eye of someone also named Tom, which an insignificant part of him found amusing.

Getting the hags their drinks, Voldemort went on break to wash up and retired to his rooms above the bar. He closed the door, locked it, soundproofed it, and let out a breath, letting his body change from its disguised state to his natural state of being. He look at himself in the mirror, taking note of his pale skin, dark hair, brooding eyes, and general lack of what had made him Voldemort in the later days of the last war.

It unnerved him far more than he'd ever care to admit and there were times he almost missed the odd haze that had clouded his mind before he had attacked the Potter boy - something he had eventually realized had split his soul  _yet again_ , which terrified him. Yet he couldn't feel the fragment anywhere. The others were all faint, but there; this newest fragment, on the other hand...

Nothing.

Could it have attached to the Potter child?

Unlikely, he reasoned. The child wouldn't have been able to house it safely. The odds were beyond astronomical.

A drawback of the Horcrux process then, he had reasoned. Without preparation, the soul piece intended for transference could be lost. Not that he had any data on that, as the book on Horcruxes hadn't been all that specific to begin with - it didn't have anything on  _multiple_  ones, after all, and he had simply gone off the assumption that what had worked once would work again.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Still not used to having a nose. Weird bumpy thing in the middle of one's face. How on earth had humans managed with it for so long? It was a target square in the middle of your face and wasn't known for being durable, so it only made sense to take measures to render it an invalid target for attack.

But not having one got a lot of weird looks and murmurs, so putting up with it to not have to put up with that seemed like a fair trade.

He was being far too reasonable lately and he still wasn't sure why.

Voldemort paused at that.

He hadn't gotten any urge to go out and recruit new Death Eaters, or hunt down the old guard. He glanced at the Dark Mark on his arm and didn't feel any desire to press it and let those who bore it he was back.

What was going on?

Something to look into, perhaps.

Later though.

He had cups to clean.

* * *

 

Voldemort sat in a large comfortable chair in front of a roaring fire within the Malfoy Manor, idly tapping his fingers together and thinking Voldemort things.

Such as why on earth the Malfoys hadn't lit a fire in the fireplace for as long as Draco had been alive, as far as the boy himself knew.

"Wormtail," Voldemort said. "Bring me a mirror."

He listened as the loyal lackey scuttled off like the rat he was, probably to filch a mirror from the lady Malfoy's rooms, because why use a wand to conjure a mirror when s physical one was mere rooms away?

Although given the size of the manor, it could be many rooms away and Voldemort almost pitied the trip he'd have to take.

Oh well, he thought, what's done is done.

Voldemort idly stroked the head of the snake that was curled around him, also enjoying the warmth of the fire. A few minutes passed and eventually Wormtail returned, with an absolutely pitifully small hand mirror.

 _"Engorgio,"_ Voldemort said dryly, before examining his face. Thin, pale, gaunt, with sunken red eyes, unsightly slits for nostrils, and an appalling lack of hair. "Do you think a trip to Saint Mungo's is in order?" Voldemort asked.

"My lord?"

"For this," Voldemort said, waving a hand over his face. "I doubt it inspires confidence in my followers and severely hampers any potential charisma checks when talking to people."

He didn't have to look at Wormtail to sense his confusion and Voldemort fought back the urge to rub his temples. Making a decision, he got to his feet, leaving the chair to Nagini, and searched the top of the mantle for the jar of Floo powder.

Tossing a pinch in, he stared at the emerald flames before saying "Saint Mungo's," and stepped through. It wasn’t until he'd already committed that he wasn't even sure if they had fireplaces with which to Floo to...

Luckily, they did, and he stepped out into a wide open reception area, where a line of witches, wizards, and other creatures were waiting to get treated.

Voldemort waited a few seconds for the crowd to notice him and sighed when the screaming started. Moving past the rapidly emptying lines, he made his way to the receptionist.

"I'm looking for someone to fix my face," he said, with the most dazzling smile he could muster.

Judging by the fact the receptionist fainted dead away, he'd failed that quite miserably.

"Oh my god, he's killed her!"

Voldemort turned to see several Aurors popping out of the various entries into the hospital and rolled his eyes.

"Clearly," he said. "Without my wand, or the telltale flash of light from a spell. Aren't I the baddest of asses? Accio wands!"

Probably not the smartest move, he thought, as dozens of sharp pointy sticks flew at him, and he ducked under them, and they thudded into the wall behind the desk.

"Seriously," he said. "I'm just here for a facelift. Or maybe a tan. Should've gone to a tanning salon. I don't suppose you know any?"

Silence and blank stares met his question and he fought back another sigh.

"Alright, fine," he grumbled. "I'll go look for it myself."

He left the dumbfounded wizards and witches behind as he made his way towards the doors leading further into the hospital.

* * *

Voldemort rubbed his temples as he paced in front of Salazar's massive statue within the Chamber of Secrets.

Across from him stood a younger spitting image of himself, who in turn was standing over the body of a young ginger-haired witch.

"Alright," Voldemort said slowly. "Horcruxes can gain their own bodies if left to their own devices, or at the very least depending on the vessel they're tied to. Not what I was expecting, but certainly not an unwelcome bit of news."

He then stared at the witch and frowned. "Although that's going to be a problem, since she's actually dead and not petrified."

The other Tom shrugged. "Could always have the basilisk eat her and save...us? The headache of dealing with the Ministry."

"Probably for the best," Voldemort said with a nod, before calling out for the creature, who left the statue and moved toward its meal.

The other Tom walked around the snake and fell into step beside his older self, occasionally glancing at him.

"Your curiosity is almost palpable," Voldemort said. "Speak your mind."

"Are we still going for the whole pureblood supremacy thing?" Tom asked. "The girl was at least kind enough to tell me everything that happened in the past few decades, but it seems our goal ended in failure."

"Unfortunately," Voldemort said with a shrug. "Honestly, it may be easier to just sit back and let the Ministry fall under its own corruption instead of rushing it along and alerting Dumbledore and his goons. We have time, and our own forms of immortality."

"Or find somewhere out of the way and make our own country," Tom said, which caused Voldemort to stare at him. "The girl had her own fanciful ideas," Tom said defensively. "Being the youngest in a family of boys will do that to you, apparently."

"I see," Voldemort said thoughtfully, before looking around. "Well, I suppose we could set the snake loose properly and easily get the school closed down for a few years while we lay low and gather the other Horcruxes and see what happens next."

"Not seizing power during the chaos?" Tom asked.

Voldemort sighed. "Believe me, I understand the appeal, but we'd ultimately just put a figurehead in place, because screw dealing with the bureaucracy and being chained by the whims of the people, because actually enforcing order in a world where everyone is a book away from unleashing Fiendfyre... Probably easier to start over with a clean slate without having to wipe the old one, no?"

"Understandable," Tom said with a nod. "I look forward to learning under you."

"And backstab me when you think my ideals have stagnated and it's time for a change in management?" Voldemort asked, looming ominously over his younger counterpart.

"Not for a while," Tom said without batting an eye. "Our ideals currently happen to coincide, and you're far more experienced than I in this new world, so I'd stick out like a sore thumb and probably wind up in Ministry custody on my own."

Voldemort chuckled, shaking his head. "I see. That's good to hear. How nice to have a protégé without having to go through the ordeal of raising a whelp from birth."

"Sounds like an absolutely miserable time, if our childhood was any indication," Tom agreed. "I imagine our offspring would have quite the swelled head once they learned what we managed to accomplish."

"Oh, definitely," Voldemort said with a grimace. The basilisk, having finished its meal, slithered around its two masters, hissing pleasantly. "You've been a good snake," Voldemort cooed, stroking over it. "Now go out and hunt to your heart's content, and feel free to make this place your home. I suspect you'll have plenty of food for a good while yet."

The snake went off, and Tom looked at Voldemort. "I assume you have a way of getting out of the castle unobtrusively?"

"What sort of evil mastermind would I be if I didn't?" Voldemort said. "Come along, my self, we have a glorious future ahead of us."

**Author's Note:**

> Done more for fun than anything remotely serious.


End file.
